You belabored me with your tale of nine cats,
Your imperfect night visions, Indian hymns.
The day opened like laundry on the line,
A stack of white plates, Moroccan courtyards.
When we were older, the country seemed uncertain,
Restless, a place to find open windows and song.
We wisely wrote a never bettered treatise,
The Art of War for Dummies, prefaced by Mercutio.
And when royalties piled up, we smelled a skunk,
Undid the ballast, and up we swung.
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